


Sherlock Falls in Love

by 1Spock_how_i_do_love_thee1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coma, F/M, Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1368211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1Spock_how_i_do_love_thee1/pseuds/1Spock_how_i_do_love_thee1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John loses his memory after waking from a coma, Sherlock is desperate to make John remember him and all the time they  spent together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Falls in Love

Sherlock’s face looked cold and stony as he gazed upon John’s motionless body, but the turmoil going on inside him was faintly visible through his greenish blue eyes. John seemed dead; his pale face was slack and his eyes closed. Only the slight throbbing in his forehead proved him to be alive, if alive was any way to describe it.   
“How did this happen, John?” asked Sherlock, his eyes shining. He stroked John’s still hand lying on the hospital sheets, “Of course, I know.” Sherlock looked a mess; he hadn’t changed out of his purple pajamas for eight days, his curly hair was unkempt and his chalky skin ashen and waxy.   
“Wake up, John!” he shouted. There was no sound except the regular beep of the machine that showed John’s heartbeat and his own voice echoing around the room. 

Eight days previously, they had just solved the case of the Red-Headed League, or so John had decided to name it. Sherlock hadn’t really been listening; there was something troubling his mind. An odd feeling in the pit of his belly that felt like it had been there since the dawn of time, but he had only just noticed it. He tried to dismiss it, to logic it away, but it wouldn’t go and still he couldn’t fathom what it was. And on top of that was the feeling he’d forgotten something, but he never forgot anything. Not anything of importance anyway. He drummed his fingers on the door of the taxi, while John chatted away about something, perhaps a court case. Sherlock looked at the driver in the mirror. She had four children, each with different fathers, and she used L’oreal blond hair dye. She was vegetarian. She noticed him staring at her and gave him a flirtatious wink. He looked at her blankly until she grew uncomfortable and turned her eyes back to the road. 

John was seeing another girlfriend tonight- Sherlock could tell from the laces on his shoes. Deducing this made the feeling ever more stronger in his stomach, and he fiercely tried to force it back away.   
“Are you alright, Sherlock? You seem... tetchy.” said John after a while.  
“Me? Why would I be tetchy?” John sighed.  
“I don’t know.” Remorse crept over Sherlock at seeing John irritated at him.  
“Sorry.” he managed to say. The word tasted like poison on him lips; apologising was too close to admitting he was wrong. Sherlock was never wrong. John stared out of the taxi window for a while.  
“It’s fine.”   
“Sure?”  
“Yeah,”. John turned to look at Sherlock when he said this, and was surprised at the intensity with which his eyes burned. Sherlock continued to stare at John as they got out of the taxi and entered 221B Baker street, long after John grew uncomfortable. 

Sherlock winced as he recalled the next part. 

They climbed the stairs wordlessly, somehow their eyes saying it all. Sherlock had realised the answer to his little puzzle now: he was in love. 

His palms sweated a little as he watched John open the door to the flat. He looked away for a second to readjust his expression, heard an explosion and looked back to see half his flat blown away and John standing there with singed eyebrows. He ran to his love immediately.  
“John! Are you alright?” he held onto John’s shoulders tightly, scared to let go. John’s kindly face was contorted in shock and fear, and he had no eyebrows anymore.  
“What the hell was that?”  
“I was expecting a visitor,” muttered Sherlock darkly. He knew he’d forgotten something. Somehow, John was in his arms now, and his skin was warm against his. John leaned up towards him, and Sherlock’s brain was in a frenzy, all logic rushing from his head out through his ears, and John was getting closer and closer, and Sherlock pulled him into him, and, and, and... A lump of plaster from the ceiling fell and knocked John to the ground. 

The beeps were still continuing. Sherlock watched John. He seemed as if he was asleep, poised on the brink of waking up.   
“Wake up John,” he whispered, and pressed his lips lightly to John’s head. He began to talk very fast.  
“John, I wish I’d realised earlier, but I love you. Ha! The world’s most clever man in love and he’s the last to know it. Everyone knew, didn’t they John? Forever assuming. Aren’t those words beautiful, John? I love you. If only you’d wake up and then you could hear them. You’re so much more than a replacement for my skull, or a colleague or even a friend. I love you John. Why won’t you wake up?” He let his head fall to John’s chest and wept, wept heartfelt tears for the first time since he was a baby. John’s eyes fluttered open.  
“John? John! Thank God you’re awake. I love you John!” John looked around blearily, confused.  
“What’s going on? Where am I? Who are you?” 

 

Sherlock was on another case, even though this one was dull as dirt, barely a four. Anything to distract him from the grief. He wished his marble features would convey how he felt, so the whole world would know of his suffering, so they would know that he was burning. Moriarty had said he would burn him. A tear dropped down Sherlock’s cheek. He was Moriarty. He’d burnt himself. 

He strode back to Baker street, even though it was several miles and he now had two hundred pounds in his pocket. The tails of his coat billowed out behind him. His heart continued to beat against his will.

“Sherlock?” called out Mrs Hudson as he took the stairs three at a time, “Is that you?”   
“Yes,” muttered Sherlock, too quietly for someone metres away to hear, but somehow Mrs Hudson heard from inside the flat. He pushed open the door.  
“I made you a cup of tea,” she said, “Just the one time.” Sherlock took it and collapsed into the old armchair. Mrs Hudson pursed her lips, but Sherlock didn’t notice.   
“Is John going to be back soon?” she asked. Sherlock said nothing. She sighed and left the room. It was a month after John had woken up. The flat was rebuilt, and now had a shiny red door. Sherlock disliked it. It didn’t show fingerprints as well as the old one.   
“Who was it for?” asked Sherlock sharply before Mrs Hudson left.   
“What?” she replied, her lip quivering.   
“The funeral,” he said.  
“How did you-” she threw her arms in the air, “My brother.” Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and shut his eyes.  
“Sleep tight, Sherlock.” whispered Mrs Hudson before leaving.   
“Goodnight,” said Sherlock quietly, a tear forming in his eye.

Sherlock instinctively walked down to the morgue when he reached the hospital, then realised his mistake and made his way to the mental health ward. He rarely came to St Bartholomew’s to see alive people. John was lying under the white sheets, looking perfectly sane, seeming entirely sane, except he couldn’t remember anything from the age of twenty to thirty two. Meaning he couldn’t remember Sherlock. He couldn’t remember Moriarty. He couldn’t remember any of the cases. He couldn’t remember Baker Street. He couldn’t remember the almost kiss. Sherlock didn’t even know why he kept returning to visit John; it only ever infuriated him.

“Sherlock,” said John upon seeing him, but it was devoid of the affection that used to be there.  
“Hello, John.” said Sherlock. He sat beside John’s bed, and there was silence for a while.  
“You know, you never told me how we met.”   
“We were,” began Sherlock. Friends, companions, lovers? “Colleagues. I think that’s how you described it.”   
“We worked together?”   
“In a way. We solved crimes, you blogged about it, and I forgot my pants.” Sherlock allowed a hint of a smile to creep about his lips. John looked bewildered.   
“An inside joke?”  
“Yes, I suppose.” The smile had vanished. John remembered nothing of all that they had gone through together.   
“Sorry.” Silence. Then  
“WHY WON’T YOU REMEMBER ANYTHING?”   
“I-I-I-”   
“TWO YEARS WE WERE FRIENDS! AND YOU REMEMBER NOTHING?” A red haze clouded over Sherlock’s eyes; he saw nothing, nothing but the blazing anger that filled his entire body.   
“I can’t-” Sherlock saw how pathetic John looked, bruises still down the side of his face, wearing striped pajamas. The anger instantly left.   
“Sorry.”  
“It’s fine. I’d be upset.”   
“You don’t even know who I am.”   
“I don’t know who i am.” Sherlock looked deep into John’s brown eyes.   
“You are John Watson. You are ironic, and caring and you can never keep a girlfriend for more than a month. You have trust issues, yet for some unfathomable reason, you chose to trust me. You argue with machines and you anger quickly and forgive even more quickly. You were an army doctor, but you had bad days and you were a soldier as well. You-” He could say no more- he was too overcome by emotion. The old John was nothing like this empty shell that resembled him so closely.   
“Who are you, then?” asked John softly.   
“I am Sherlock Holmes. I-” He was about to boast of his powers of deduction, his intelligence, his prowess, but what would be the use in that?, “I am worthless without John Watson.”

 

Sherlock paced up and down the flat. Everything was so boring without John. How had he managed before? He’d just tottered around being clever, making fun of Lestrade, slapping on nicotine patches... But what was the point in being clever when there was nobody around to say things like ‘brilliant!’ and ‘amazing!’? He didn’t know if he even wanted to be clever anymore. Would it be so boring to be ordinary? Not with John. For the first time in his life, Sherlock wanted to be normal. To have a straight linear brain, processing only one thought at a time, easily distracted. Maybe that was why he was so distraught; he could not be distracted from John. 

Then he knew what to do. He’d get drunk. 

Mrs Hudson entered the flat to find Sherlock unconscious and naked on the floor, surrounded by bloody thumbs, obviously taken from the open fridge. A lesser woman would have fainted. But this was Mrs Hudson, the same Mrs Hudson who had put up with Sherlock for five years, and any woman who could do that was invincible.  
“Yoohoo!” she called to Sherlock. He shook his head slowly, eyes still shut.   
“Wh-?”  
“Shh, now dear. Let me get you a cup of tea.” She very carefully kept her eyes away from him, “And perhaps some clothes?”  
“Ysss...” 

Sherlock’s brain worked very slowly. Head in a puddle. Water? No. Sticky. Bitter. Rum. He licked a little off his chin. Why were his arms so heavy? His head felt like it was several metres away from his neck, and like his brain had been rolled around in sandpaper. It was rather pleasant. There was a thick fog over his thoughts and vision. The only thing he could deduce was that he needed another drink. He attempted to stand up and collapsed onto the sofa.   
“Muurrrsss Hdsoonnn?” he shouted.  
“Yes dear, with you in a minute.” Sherlock tried to scratch his head, missed, and scraped a chunk out of the wallpaper with his fingernails instead. His head lolled, and he was fast asleep, dribbling down his chin a little. Mrs Hudson tucked a sheet around him, keeping her eyes averted.   
“Have sweet dreams, dear,” was the last thing she said to him before switching off the light and leaving him to dream of John.

 

John Watson lay in his hospital bed. His head hurt trying to remember all that Sherlock said had happened. Sherlock... he thought, what an odd name. The man didn’t even look vaguely familiar- and he was sure he would have remembered those pale high cheek bones if he’d seen them before. And he was very strange; he always seemed to be holding back from saying something. He looked at him with such burning compassion, it made him uncomfortable. Were they something more than colleagues..? John wondered. He clenched his teeth. It was so infuriating not knowing what had happened in a whole ten years of his life. He’d been to fight in Afghanistan, got shot, moved in with this Sherlock more or less as soon as he got back. Why on earth would he move in with a complete stranger straight away? And such an odd one at that? There must have been something going on. Funny, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, I thought I was straight. 

Sherlock felt even worse than he had before the whisky. Now not only was he in terrible grief, but he had the mother of all headaches as well. That brief moment of euphoria couldn't have been worth- his thoughts were interrupted as he charged to the sink to be sick. He hated how slowly his brain was processing and wondered if it would ever work properly again.  
"Sorry, sorry," he muttered to his dead brain cells. He heaved himself away from the sink, chest convulsing and settled weeping back onto the sofa. Emotions weren't an advantage, but he'd be damned before he got rid of them again. 

John was reading the other John's blog. That was what he'd taken to calling him- the other John. They were both entirely different, and had formed completely different conclusions on Sherlock. The other John thought he was brilliant, fantastic, wonderful. The real John thought he was mad, and there was something dangerous behind his entrancing eyes. Sherlock was always reserved at the start of his visits, then he grew angry and finally settled down to grieve the death of the other John. He was barking mad- how could the other John have ever trusted him? He'd seen him conversing with the nurses. "Did you have a pleasant stay in Portugal?" he'd ask, or "Doctor Manson isn't worth it, you know." And each time, the same reply: "How did you know?". And Sherlock would always come out with a series of stupid explanations that could have explained any number of other situations. But he was always right. John shivered. Sherlock was a madman. 

"Dear, you aren't taking John's... accident very well at all," said Mrs Hudson after discovering Sherlock on the search for yet more alcohol.  
"It was my fault," murmured Sherlock, "want to forget." Mrs Hudson took the bottle of brandy from him in an instant. He didn't resist; his usually perfect reactions were slow.   
"Don't want to be sober... Argh, my head!"   
"I'm worried about you, Sherlock!" Sherlock staggered a little.  
"Me? Why would you worry 'bout me? I'm just your tenant." (It soundd like 'tent', but Mrs Hudson knew what he meant).   
"Don't be foolish, Sherlock. You know you're more than that. Let me take you to a doctor-"  
"There's only one doctor I want, and he's been replaced by an imposter." Mrs Hudson pursed her lips and tentatively stroked his hand. He didn't stir, tears falling onto his lap.   
"He might gain back his memory, Sherlock. There's always hope."   
"Pah!" spat Sherlock, "Hope! I had hopes and they were crushed." Mrs Hudson didn't say anything; she couldn't. She patted his hand again, and withdrew back to her flat. Sherlock let his head fall to his hands. There was no more brandy and there was no more John. 

Mrs Hudson sat in her perfectly neat flat, alone. Her landline sat beside her. Dared she use it? Sherlock had told her explicitly never to talk to... him. Mycroft. But she didn't know what to do! She didn't even know Sherlock. She gasped as she realised it was true. Sherlock had known her from the moment he'd seen her, but she had never had the faintest inkling as to what was going through his brilliant mind. Mycroft would know, though. He'd known Sherlock all his life. 

"Mrs Hudson," said Mycroft.   
"Mr Holmes?"  
"You're worried about Sherlock?"  
"I always am." There was a loud sigh down the phone.   
"What is it this time?"  
"John. He hasn't improved. He's been-" Mrs Hudson looked around, "Drinking!" She whispered. Mycroft chuckled.   
"Really? What's that like?"   
"Mr Holmes!" Said Mrs Hudson, "He's in such a state!".   
"I know," said Mycroft gravely, "I was just trying to make light of the situation. I must try to improve my social skills another time."  
"Yes."   
"What went on between him and John? I mean, John was in denial, that much was obvious. But Sherlock? Who knows what goes through that mind?"  
"I was hoping you would," whispered Mrs Hudson hoarsly.   
"There was no romantic connection between them at all?"  
"Well I wouldn't know. They always had separate rooms. And there was always tension but... This is Sherlock we're talking about!"  
"He had a relationship once."  
"Really?"  
"Yes. He was fifteen. Her name was Charlotte. She was obviously madly in love with him, but the affection wasn't mutual. She always seemed like an experiment somehow. He knew exactly how to kiss her, exactly what to say. Then he cruelly left her. I think she got depression. After that he was never sociable again; he deleted those skills from his 'harddrive'. Caring was not an advantage; he proved that. So why he should care for John I cannot fathom..."  
"Oh my," said Mrs Hudson, dabbing her eyes.   
"Mrs Hudson?"  
"Yes?"   
"Look after him, will you?"  
"Of course."  
"Goodbye, Mrs Hudson."  
"Goodbye, dear." Mrs Hudson wept.

Sherlock did not mope around for long. He had had two days of that, of being drunk and staggering around and weeping. Now was the time for action. John was due to come out of the hospital. Sherlock, being the closest thing to a friend or relative was to take him back to the flat. He was smart, sober, and ready to meet John without crying or shouting. His face was as blank, smooth and cold as marble. 

John was waiting outside St Bart’s for Sherlock to pick him up. Sherlock walked up towards him, wearing his thick black coat even though it was a hot summer day. Molly was talking to John. Sherlock lurked behind a door, listening.  
“So you were a friend?” asked John. Molly hesitated.  
“Yes. We worked together occasionally.”   
“And you’re Sherlock’s friend?”  
“No. Sherlock only had one friend.” John’s eyebrows raised.   
“Me?”  
“The old you, yes. I don’t suppose you want to be friends with him now?”  
“I’m not sure what to make of him, if I’m honest.” Molly laughed bleakly.   
“Neither does anyone. He’s cold and cruel, but then his occasional compassion is beautiful,” she blushed, “not that he was ever compassionate to me, of course.” Sherlock chose that moment to walk to them, his heart tearing in two at the thought of John forgetting him. He didn’t give a second thought to Molly.  
“Hello John, Molly.” he said casually. Molly jumped, startled and blushed furiously.  
“Hello, Sherlock.” Sherlock smiled at John, showing all his white teeth.   
“Ready to come back home?” 

John watched Molly go wistfully through the taxi window.   
“She likes you, you know.” he said. Sherlock’s brow creased.  
“What do you mean?” John shook his head.  
“Nothing.” Molly was very pretty. He thought of her lingeringly, but then he looked at Sherlock and was stunned by the beauty of his pale face, his blue green eyes, his haughty cheekbones. His mouth dropped open a little. Sherlock was very deliberately not looking at John- it was too painful. Each fleeting glance was like a knife through his heart, because he knew John would never regain his memory and would never love him.   
“So,” said John after a few minutes of silence, “is it just us in the flat?”   
“Mrs Hudson, our landlady lives upstairs, but it is just you and I in 221B.”   
“Just you and I? Were we-?”   
“No.” John blushed.  
“Right then. Just checking.”   
“Naturally.” 

Sherlock wondered why he’d only recognised his love for John on the day John had fallen into a coma. Had he recognised it before, they’d have had so much time, so much time. They could have been married- wait. Sherlock was married to his job, was he not? Yes. No. Call it a divorce. His heart wasn’t in the job. His heart belonged to John.

Mrs Hudson had arranged a tea party when they returned home. It was ridiculous. John couldn’t even eat anything and his taste for tea had disappeared along with his memory. Mrs Hudson tried to chat to John, but it was like talking to a stranger. Sherlock said nothing. He sat with elbows on table, fingertips pressed together, thinking. 

John didn’t recognise the flat at all, except, for some reason, the skull on the mantelpiece which rang a faint bell. He cried when he went to sleep that night. After all, he had lost ten years of his life.

The next day, Sherlock made breakfast. He made bacon and eggs and baked beans and fried bread and mushrooms and sausages and coffee. It didn't work very well, but John ate the mush thankfully enough. They ate in silence; there was nothing to say. Sherlock couldn't predict anything that John did; his every action was a surprise. The new John was boring, too. He knew nothing about Sherlock. All he did was ask questions about the flat and Molly. Boring. 

They were watching Eastenders, one on the chair, one on the sofa. Sherlock had to try very hard to refrain from shouting at the television (he'd noticed this irritated the new John). Then John came out with it.  
"It's very odd, suddenly sharing a flat with a stranger." Sherlock stared at him blankly for a few seconds. Then,  
"You did it once before."   
"God knows why," muttered John, too low for Sherlock to hear. Then, "So do I have a job?"   
"Yes, you work at the doctors." John raised his eyebrows.   
"Really? I'm a little over qualified for that, if I say so myself."   
"You needed the money. And there was an attractive woman working there." John said nothing for a while.  
"Didn't know I was that kind of person," he said eventually.   
"No." Cockney arguing continued in the background.   
"So, uh, don't you bring in much money, if I had to go and work there?"  
"Depends whether I'm on a case or not."   
"Ah, I forgot. Detective Sherlock Holmes."  
"Indeed."  
"Got a case at the moment?"  
"No."   
"Pity." Sherlock looked at John in disbelief. What was wrong with him? John sighed.  
"Look, I'm sorry. It's just strange, being here and... And I have a headache. I'm going to bed." Sherlock made a non-committal grunt. John turned and walked back to his bedroom. That was when Sherlock noticed. Although John hadn't the slightest injury, he limped on his left leg. Sherlock grinned.

 

"I honestly don't remember!" Gasped John, as they chased a taxi through London, "I don't even recognise London! What the hell are we doing?"   
"Jogging," wheezed Sherlock.  
"Jogging! This is running! I can't-"  
"Your memory," Sherlock managed to finish.   
"Well it's not working," snapped John.   
"No," said Sherlock, collapsing against a wall, "but your limp has gone."  
"My limp? Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."  
"You limped before. Entirely gone now."  
"And?"   
"The old John Watson is coming back." 

Mycroft was at a loss. That his brother should fall susceptible to feelings was unthinkable. But there it was , clear as day. He'd loved John. Sherlock was a fool, he thought to himself crossly, emotions were not an advantage. He’d learnt that the hard way...

“For God’s sake, John you’re not even trying!” roared Sherlock.  
“I am!” shouted John, tears of frustration forming in his eyes, “I’ve been in a coma!”   
“Can’t you remember anything?” asked Sherlock bitterly, “None of the cases?”  
“No.”   
“Study in Pink?”  
“No.”  
“Hound of the Baskervilles?”  
“No.” They were both stood up now, eyeing each other angrily.   
“The Red-headed League,” said Sherlock softly.   
“No. It doesn’t ring a bell.”   
“Does this?” asked Sherlock and kissed him. It was brief and sweet, and Sherlock suddenly felt very dizzy. He broke it off, and stared into John’s eyes, his arms around his waist. John gasped, shocked.  
“Have we done that before? I think I remember...” Sherlock watched John carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. John shook his head, scattering his fringe over his forehead.  
“No. Even if we did... kiss... I’m a different person now, you understand?”  
“Quite.”  
“Look, I’ve got to go.” Sherlock picked up his violin from behind the sofa, and fully immersed himself in the music. John thought he recognised the tune, then gave out and walked into the rain. Sherlock continued to play. It was the song he’d composed when Irene Adler had left him. 

 

There was something about the new John, thought Molly as she dissected a fresh corpses hand, something... different. And in a good way. Perhaps it was how he didn’t moon after Sherlock all the time anymore. He was strong, and independant and... hot. She blushed, her pink skin looking very bright next to the corpse’s pallor.   
“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered to the body, “but I think I love John Watson!” Molly often talked to the bodies. They didn’t argue, they didn’t point out her flaws, they didn’t make her stutter and she liked to think they appreciated her jokes too.   
“Yes, I know I loved Sherlock. But he’s so cruel and-”  
“Molly?” She jumped, slicing the body’s thumb off.   
“Yes?” she called nervously, terrified that someone had heard her.   
“It’s John. Is it alright if I come in?”   
“Yes, yes of course.” she said, flustered, slicking on a quick coat of lipstick before he entered (smudging it down the side of one lip, but John didn’t tell her that. He thought it was kind of cute). He walked over to her, and my, he looked gorgeous.   
“Hi John,” she said shyly, fiddling with a strand of her hair. She wished she’d worn something more attractive than her checked shirt and jeans under her lab coat.   
“Molly,” he said, “sorry, but I had to get out of the flat, and you’re the only one I know.”  
“It’s fine,” she breathed. She was shocked at her almost-flirtatiousness. She could never have been like this with Sherlock.   
“I argued with Sherlock. Was I ever his friend, Molly?”  
“Oh yes. You were never apart.”   
“What an idiot I was,” said John, mesmerised by Molly’s eyes. Their warmth seemed to radiate from her smooth face, unlike Sherlock’s cruel, cold ones.   
“Look, uh, do you want to get a coffee?”   
“Sure,” said Molly. She hadn’t finished her shift yet, but she didn’t care. 

 

Sherlock prowled around the flat in nothing but his sheet. John would have to come back. He had nowhere else to stay- oh. Molly. Of course. Molly. Sherlock understood humans better than most people thought, and he knew what was going to happen. First it would be coffee, and then...

“Fancy coming pack to my blace?” asked Molly.  
“Sure,” said John. They were both a little tipsy on the ‘coffee’ (which was a deep red colour and came in tall green bottles. A lot of tall green bottles). They laughed, and tried to help each other up, resulting in a lot of rude stares, and them getting kicked out of the bar. They just laughed some more, sitting in the gutter.   
“Shall we have a taxi?” asked John. Molly, for unfathomable reasons, found this hilarious and collapsed in giggles further onto the floor. John laughed too, high pitched hiccups that didn’t suit his manly physique. He stuck his hand out in front of an approaching cab and they both managed to climb through the door. They were soon at Molly’s flat, and by some miracle Molly had both money for the cab and her keys. With their combined effort, they managed to get the key in the lock, and entered the flat. John collapsed onto the sofa, and Molly collapsed onto him. He kissed her, and was as surprised as she was by his action. She kissed him back, on his cheek, his forehead, his sweet, full lips...

 

“You slept with her, didn’t you.” stated Sherlock as soon as John walked through the door the following afternoon.   
“What?” asked John, bewildered, “How did you know about Molly?”  
“Who else,” said Sherlock bitterly, “you slept with her, didn’t you.”   
“No,” said John, irritated already, “I didn’t actually.”   
“You stayed overnight.”  
“Yes, her in her bed and me on the sofa. Why is it your business anyway, Sherlock?”   
“Ahhh. You wanted to, but she declined. I wonder why that was. She seems quite taken with you.”   
“She’s not that kind of girl,” said John, smiling slightly, “Anyway, stop playing with my mind, Sherlock. I’ve half a mind to leave again now.”  
“Yes, to meet your new love.” said Sherlock softly.   
“Sherlock! I don’t know what went on between you and me, but it’s over, whatever it was. I’m not that person anymore. Don’t you understand?”  
“I understand perfectly, Mr Watson.”  
“Doctor Watson.”   
“Of course.”   
“Look, just leave me alone for a bit.” Sherlock walked out. 

John pressed his forehead against the cold window, watching the rain. He found Sherlock attractive, there was no doubt about that, but the man was a sociopath! Damn, what an attractive sociopath though... He'd always been attracted to danger. That was why he'd joined the army... No. Molly was a better choice. She was safe, and boring, and kind, and boring, and lovely, and boring. Boring. Boring. Boring. He thirsted for danger, for something to happen. Anything. He touched his lips where Sherlock had kissed him the night before. That brief, tender, short kiss had been worth all the lingering passionate ones from Molly, and more. He shook his head violently, as if he could dislodge the thoughts. Sherlock was a maniac. He didn't understand anything about people- Asperger's? No, it was something more than that. John detested the man.

 

Sherlock's tears were hidden amongst the raindrops that streaked down his face. It would have been better if John had died, then Sherlock's memory of him wouldn't have been tinged by the thought of the terrible person he was now. Maybe he should just pretend John had died, just leave Baker street and carry on as he had done before John came into his life. Would that not be better? Or would it be too close to giving up. The nurses at the hospital had been sure that John would never regain his memory, but Sherlock clung onto a faint hope that somehow, somehow he could help John. But helping John wouldn't be easy when John hated him. There was only one person who Sherlock thought could help, and he sure as hell wasn't going to phone him first. 

Mycroft eyed his mobile nervously. He did hate to talk to his brother, but he wsa honestly worried about Sherlock. 'Be the bigger man', he thought to himself. Not hard, since he'd gained so much weight since John had lost his memory. He pressed the button.

Sherlock allowed the phone to ring for a few minutes before answering.   
"Sherlock Holmes," he said, although he knew who had phoned him. He was stood in a bus stop, the rain splattering against the plastic.   
"It's Mycroft."  
"Oh." Mycroft hesitated.  
"How are you?"   
"Mycroft, don't pretend you don't know how I am. I'm broken." The words slipped out; Sherlock had intended on coming back with a witty remark.  
"I know." Mycroft sighed. "We weren't meant to care, you know. That's not who we are."  
"Speak for yourself."  
"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."   
"I know."  
"So why do you care for John?" Sherlock's heart cracked a little at the mention of his name.   
"Because I love him. Because he's my other half- not in a figurative sense; he is me, more than you are, more than Moriarty. We are as alike as chalk and cheese, but he is I and I am he. Don't you understand, Mycroft? I love him!"   
"Yes, but why, for God's sake?" Sherlock was becoming agitated; he drummed his fingers on his thigh.  
"Why do you breathe, Mycroft? Why do you eat, why do you sleep?"  
"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous! Look what you've done to yourself. I can see you, you know."  
"I know. Four CCTV cameras pointed directly at me. You think I wouldn't notice?"   
'You're pale, you're weak, you're too thin. You've been crying. You're becoming ordinary."   
"I don't care," wept Sherlock, "I don't care anymore. What's so bad about being ordinary?"   
"You want to see the world like the normal people?" Asked Mycroft, shocked, "Linear, boring, dull. You want to walk into an empty room and see just that, an empty room?"  
"If it means I can have John," said Sherlock.   
"John isn't worth it anymore," exclaimed Mycroft, "consider him dead!" He shut his eyes. He shouldn’t have said that. Sherlock didn’t speak for a while. Then,  
“I won’t consider him dead, because when one is dead, one has no hope of returning. And John will return. Goodbye, Mycroft.” Mycroft groaned. Hope. That one was always the killer. The higher you are when you fall, the harder you’ll hit the ground, and the more you’ll shatter.

Molly hugged her pillow to her chest. She sat on her red squashy sofa in her checked pajamas and she was happy. Who couldn’t be when they’d kissed someone like John? The flat was full of a fragrant scent- John had left her flowers. So romantic. John made her happy, like Sherlock never could. Why had she spent so long besotted over that fool anyway? He had never shown her any kindness, not until the Reichenbach Fall, anyway, and that was just to get him a body. Oh, and he’d kissed her cheek at the Christmas party, but that was just to make up for his appalling behavior beforehand. No, John was different and John made her happy. 

Sherlock didn’t return to the flat for several hours. When he did, all hell broke loose.   
“You bought her flowers?” he raged, noting the green smudge on John’s right thumb and the pink petal on the sole of his shoe. John’s face contorted in anger, and he stood up, switching the television off.   
“How did you- no. You’d like it if I asked you that, wouldn’t you? So you can show off with your silly deductions? No. You know what, it’s no concern of yours.”  
“It’s every concern of mine!” shouted Sherlock, heartbroken.   
“No. It’s not. So what if I’ve bought my girlfriend flowers? I’m not your husband, Sherlock.” John stormed to his room, kicking a dent in the wall on his way. Sherlock didn’t even cry. He just took out his violin and played some Bach, even though he’d hated the stuff since Moriarty’s visit. John didn’t love Molly. That much was obvious, he didn’t love her any more than her predecessors (all of whom John had forgotten). Molly was dull, and made bad jokes, and stuttered. John liked interesting people. He had to get to know Sherlock. 

Sherlock played violin for two and a half hours, then climbed the stairs to John’s bedroom and knocked at the door.   
“Come in,” said John, in a much calmer tone. Sherlock entered. John was lying in bed on his laptop. He sat up abruptly when he saw Sherlock, and placed his computer to one side.   
“Sherlock?”  
“May I?”  
“Yes, of course.” Sherlock sat in the wicker chair at the foot of John’s bed.   
“I’m sorry.” said Sherlock simply. John blinked.   
“It’s fine,” he said, “I’m sorry too.”   
“I keep thinking you’re... the old John.” said Sherlock, “and... you’re not. You’re an entirely different person.”   
“I am,” said John.  
“So I propose we start again, as strangers, which is what we are.”  
“Yes. I think that would work.”   
“Hello, the name’s Sherlock Holmes.” John smiled.  
“I’m John Watson.” They looked at each other for a moment. They couldn’t help it. They fell into a passionate embrace. 

 

“Boys?” called Mrs Hudson, “There’s someone at the door to see you!” John staggered from his room, clothes rumpled, hair sticking up at odd angles.   
“Mrs Hudson,” he said loudly, “lovely to see you.”  
“What? I said there was someone at the door. They rang the bell for your flat, but neither of you were in.”   
“Fine, lovely, perfect.”  
“Are you alright dear?”  
“I’m prefect! Absolutely stupendous! Thanks for asking!” And with that, John ran down the stairs three at a time, crashed into the door and then opened it. It was Molly Hooper.   
“Oh, Molly,” he said.   
“Uh, hi, John,” she said, “Are you ready?”  
“Ready for what?” he asked, bemused. Molly laughed nervously.  
“We were going to go out?”   
“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.” he looked over his shoulder anxiously, “Sorry, could you wait in the flat one minute? I need to uh, brush my, uh hair.” Molly looked around.  
“Sherlock isn’t there, is he?”  
“Uh, no, he’s... out.” Of this world at kissing.   
“Okay, good.” she smiled, “It’s just kind of awkward with him, you know.”   
“Sure,” said John, and showed her to the sofa, and then bolted up the stairs to his room. Sherlock was just as he’d left him, lying shirtless on the bed, looking beautiful as ever. His eyes were closed in bliss.  
“Sherlock,” John hissed, “It’s Molly!”  
“Who?” murmured Sherlock.   
“Molly! I asked her on a date tonight!”   
“Well,” said Sherlock, licking his lower lip slightly, “you look ravishing. I’m sure she’ll be very impressed. I know I am.”   
“Sherlock, how can I go on a date with Molly, when we were...” Sherlock jumped up in front of John in one smooth action and looked deep into John’s eyes.   
“John. I love you. I love the old you. I love the new you. I love all of you. You complete me. I cannot live without you; you are the only thing that makes life worth living.”  
“I love you too,” said John, sighing as he realised it was true.   
“Do as you wish with Molly. But please remember, I will always be waiting for you.” John nodded, unable to do anything else. He put his hands on Sherlock’s muscular shoulders as Sherlock fixed his hair. He studied his love’s face, those haughty cheekbones, those soaring contours, those beautiful blue green eyes. He knew he could never love anyone else, especially not Molly. Sherlock gave him a quick peck, and whispered,  
“Be good,” before John left with Molly. 

Sherlock put a David Bowie track on and danced around the flat. He had never danced before, and he wasn’t very good at it, but he didn’t care. Those kisses with John were magic. Sherlock closed his eyes and remembered.

His strong lips had pressed against John’s soft, yielding ones, and John’s hands were knotting themselves in Sherlock’s dark curly hair, and caressing his face and the back of his neck, and tracing his spine and... Then Mrs Hudson had called. Sherlock wondered what would have happened next. He shivered, and smiled. Only time would tell.

Was this what it felt like to be in love? wondered Molly. Her heart fluttered and her eyes widened and her head felt like it was on another planet altogether. John seemed to be feeling the same way; he kept fidgeting, and he blinked too much and his eyes were all moony and he was so... hot. They were in a restaurant, sharing some tapas, and Molly couldn’t keep her gaze away from John’s warm, deep eyes.

John was feeling increasingly guilty as he saw how happy Molly was. He opened his mouth to tell her what had happened between him and Sherlock, but all that came out was,  
“You look beautiful tonight.” She did, too. Her shiny hair was scraped back behind her ears and flowed freely down her back. She wore an emerald green dress that accented her eyes wonderfully. She blushed.   
“Thanks, you do too.” she blushed deeper red, “Well, obviously not beautiful, that’s for girls. You look um, handsome. Handsome.” John couldn’t help but smile.   
“Thanks, Molly.” she grinned, wringing her hands in her lap and cursing herself.

Mrs Hudson called Mycroft.   
“Hello?”  
“It’s Mrs Hudson, dear.”   
“Ah, what can I do for you?”  
“Sherlock is happy again. More than happy. John just left his room, and as soon as the front door closed, Sherlock walked out, bold as brass with no top on! In John’s bedroom!”  
“Really?”   
“Yes, I think they were-” Mrs Hudson looked around conspiritally, “kissing.”   
“Well, this is interesting news. I thought John was going on a date with Molly tonight.”   
“They must be going just as friends.” said Mrs Hudson firmly, pursing her lips.  
“Indeed. Well, Mrs Hudson, I’m afraid I’m at an important meeting right now, and I must dash.”

Molly held John’s hand as they wandered around Hyde Park. Yesterday’s showers were gone, and the starry sky was clear. The air was fresh, and smelled of anticipation. John kept looking over his shoulder, but Molly put it down to nerves- after all, her own heart raced, and her palms were a little sweaty.   
“John, are you alright?” she asked after the fifth time John checked behind him.   
“What? Oh, yes, fine.” he said distractedly.   
“You know,” said Molly softly, trying to allure him, “I like the new John much more than the old one.” She knew she wouldn’t reject him now if he asked her now. She was ready. She traced his cheekbones playfully. John turned and looked straight at her. Molly’s pupils dilated. John had a feeling that this was important somehow, but he couldn’t remember why.   
“Molly,” he said slowly, “I’m sorry, but this is all a bit sudden. I mean, I’m just out of a coma; I can’t remember ten years of my life. I’m just really confused- I think it’s better if we stay apart for a while, Molly.” 

 

“How did she take it?” queried Sherlock, the instant John walked through the door.  
“How did you know I’d ended it?” asked John.   
“I knew you’d do nothing else- we love each other.” said Sherlock. John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock looked sheepishly away, “Plus your shoelaces are in double knots and you have saltwater marks on your shirt...”  
“Humph.”   
“But the first was more romantic, and besides, it’s true. We’re meant to be, you and I, John.” John gaped at Sherlock. Then,  
“She didn’t take it very well, no.”   
“Ah.”  
“She cried a lot.”  
“Oh dear.”   
“I feel awful.”  
“Fancy some tea?” asked Sherlock.John shook his head miserably, and sat beside Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock pulled John’s head into his lap and stroked his hair. John shut his eyes, at peace.  
“It’s all going to be alright,” said Sherlock. 

 

 

The Wedding

John stood in front of the mirror in his room. His floppy hair was combed to one side and his eyes sparkled. Pale smooth hands adjusted his bow tie for him from behind him. A seductive whisper inches away from his ear,  
“You look perfect,” John smiled.  
“As do you, Sherlock.”   
“Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?”   
“There isn’t a bride,” said John firmly. He’d spent enough time explaining this to the guests. Sherlock lightly tapped John’s nose.   
“Of course not,” They shared one last kiss as an unwedded couple, and then Sherlock was gone. 

It was a simple wedding, with no relatives apart from Mycroft attending. Only their closest friends shared this happy day with them, 

They didn’t marry in a church, of course. Sherlock had chosen the destination- Hyde Park, where John had regained his memory five month after dumping Molly. It was a warm breezy day, and the wind ruffled the leaves on the trees and mussed up John’s hair (Sherlock’s was already messy). They both walked each other down the grassy ‘aisle’, and John caught sight of several familiar faces in the audience: Molly, who had long since forgiven them, the Woman, Mycroft... And of course, Lestrade stood in front of them, for it was he that was going to wed them. Lestrade was stood underneath a willow tree, and he smiled as he watched the approaching pair. He’d found it a little odd at first, but only a fool could deny how irrevocably happy the couple were, and it was hard not to be happy for them. 

Both vows were short; every promise that could have been made already had been. Then Lestrade said,   
“You may kiss.” 

And everyone agreed it was the happiest union they had ever seen.


End file.
